The Man with No Eyes
by AlliPaige
Summary: Sam and Dean show up at your door, claiming to be contractors that arrive late to look at the space you're wanting to remodel in your newly-bought house—the basement. You despised going down to that basement alone. But are these strangers who they say they are? And why does the one in the leather jacket keep staring at you? Will they ultimately give you more than you bargained for?
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: Sam and Dean show up at your door, claiming to be contractors that arrive late to look at the space you're wanting to remodel in your newly-bought house—the basement. The old house was unexpectedly cheap, and you had some money left over to pay for renovations. Not to mention, you despised going down to that basement alone. But are these strangers who they say they are? And why does the one in the leather jacket keep staring at you? Will they ultimately do something more than you bargained for?  
**

 _ **Dean x Reader, Winchester awesomeness.**_

 _ **Y/N: Your name**_

 **Author's Note: My first Supernatural fic! Please review if you can! I just started on this and would love any feedback or ideas! Warning: My updates most likely won't be regular. My schedule is really hectic so bear with me and let's see where this thing goes!  
**

* * *

" **The Man with No Eyes"**

 **Chapter 1**

You sigh at the floorboards beneath you, knowing that you still have a lot of work to do. The movement makes your hair fall out of your carefully-constructed messy bun. You curse inwardly. No matter how many times you try, you just can't get your hair to look like the girls' on Pinterest.

With another great sigh, you bend your knees and with great effort, try to lift your gargantuan industrial clock that you just found for a steal at a local garage sale. You've always envisioned it being the centerpiece of the room, mounted on the fireplace brick. You hastily put the clock back down before you hurt yourself, or worse—drop the clock and break it. You'd had it for less than 24 hours and what some would call a decorative monstrosity was already your favorite thing in the house.

You'd been searching for an old fixer-upper and after months and months of searching, there this beautiful old thing sat on your computer screen. The bank had just made it available for sale, and astoundingly it was under budget. Like, really under budget. You figured it was because the house must have needed a lot of TLC inside. You weren't exactly wrong, but it wasn't as bad as you'd expected. You brushed it off. This was your dream house, why look too far into it?

You decide to save the clock-mounting for when you had another brave, yet unfounded moment of strength. This was something that those contractors you called over a week ago could be doing—should be doing. With the money you saved on buying the place, you had some left over to hire people to do the hard stuff like mixing drywall and all that mess. These guys came highly recommended on Craigslist, but they hadn't shown up when they said they would and had yet to return any of your irritated, yet eerily calm calls. You hated confrontation. Of course, now that you think about it, they were off of Craigslist… you kind of set the trap up for yourself on that one.

You plop down on your new couch and look around the room, assessing what was left to do. The curtains needed to be hung since the paint was finally dry. You needed to hook up the TV with all of your devices, the majority of your pictures needed to be hung and you still think you want to switch the furniture around a bit - now that you've gotten used to it, you don't like that chair there. In addition to all of that, you hadn't even started unpacking the dining room yet. Oh, and you can't forget to hang that damn clock.

You're startled out of your mental to-do list by a sudden knock at the door. You blanch. You weren't expecting company! You're in some sweatpants that make your butt look big and a probably too-tight ACDC shirt, now that you think about it. You probably needed to get another one, but it'd become your favorite and no one was supposed to be coming over today anyway! Hastily, you check your disheveled reflection in your new mirror by the door and decide that it's not getting any better than that. You peep through the peep hole and spy two indistinct male forms. You feel nervous answering the door by yourself, but you do anyway after another insistent knock from one of them. You take a deep breath and barely squeak it open, just enough to poke your face through. The chain lock above your head is still secure.

You're greeted by the sight of two surprisingly-attractive guys that calmly smile at you. You suddenly wish that you were wearing something more flattering—or that maybe you'd showered. Yeah, showers are good thing to have around hot guys.

"Hi."

"Hey."

They take turns with their informal greetings and flash attractive half-smiles at you. Ugh, their voices were to die for too. Great. You _would_ be looking like a disheveled college student who just rolled out of bed when potential soul mates knock on your door. This would happen to you. Trying hard not to sound like a flustered idiot, you finally find words.

"Uh, hey," you greet back, unsure. You look back and forth between them. God, they got hotter by the second. "Do I know you guys?" You're pretty damn sure you wouldn't have forgotten these two.

"Uh, no ma'am, you don't," the taller one answers, and you inwardly feel relief. "I'm Sam, and this is Dean." He motions to the guy beside him, who's eyes are making your palms sweat.

"Hi, I'm Y/N," you respond automatically with a smile. The inner safety freak inside of you reprimands your actions. Why did you just tell two complete strangers standing at your doorway who you were? You push the fear down when you note how… not-aggressive they seem.

There's a short silence, then Sam speaks up again. "It's nice to meet you, Y/N." His eyes flash to Dean and back to you. "We're here for, uh…"

"To, uh…" Dean tries to help him out. You narrow your eyes. You bet you know who these guys are.

"Are you the contractors that I called forever ago?" you ask, the irritation evident in your voice. The two exchange quick glances and suddenly start nodding.

"Yes, ma'am, yes we are," Dean states, and for whatever reason you have trouble maintaining eye contact with him. You put your hand over your eyes as a visor, pretending it's the sunlight glare that's giving you the trouble.

"Just one second," you laugh quickly and shut the door. You unslide the chain lock and open the door all the way, stepping out to the edge of the door frame.  
You try to ignore the hot blood you feel rushing to your face. Now you're strictly business. In your sweats. You cross your arms over your chest.

"Well, it would've been nice to have a call first, I've gotta say," you glare lightly at them. "What took so long?"

Sam looks at Dean, expecting him to answer, but he's silent. For a second you think Dean is staring at your boobs and you get really offended, but then he looks up to you with a heart-thumping grin.

"ACDC, huh?" He points at the insignia on your chest. You look down at your shirt, surprised and embarrassed by the direction your thoughts had taken.

"Oh, uh, yeah," you smile lightly, taken off guard, amused. "I love 80s Rock. Grew up with it."

His facial expression morphs to some pleased, somewhat impressed look, and the satisfaction you feel makes the blood rush to your face even faster. You avoid his gaze and look back to Sam.

You clear your throat, a little awkwardly. "So, what are you guys doing here? I guess you assume that you still have my business after not returning my calls. Are you really that busy?"

Sam swallows uncomfortably. He looks to Dean for assistance again but Dean is silent, hands in pockets, just looking at you with the faintest, almost undetectable smirk on his face. You quickly look away from Dean again and focus on Sam. Sam doesn't make you as nervous.

"We, uh, apologize for that," Sam concedes, still trying not-so-subtly to catch Dean's eye. He sighs, realizing he was on his own. "We had a bit of, uh, a meltdown with our servers back at the office and a lot of our information was just gone, on customers, everything."

You looked down to his pocket then back up again pointedly. "I guess this server crash magically spread to your phones, too?" Your gall surprises you, you're normally not confrontational. But the frustration of trying to do a reno alone for over a week now seeps into your tone.

Sam is ready this time. "We were so distracted with it, Y/N, we apologize. We had to, uh, be at the office while it got fixed and, I mean, you know how those things go. But we're here now. Right, Dean?"

Dean doesn't even look at him, he's still watching you. He grunts in agreement. Sam looks a little irritated.

"Well, were you guys planning on doing work today, or…?"

Dean finally speaks. "Well, first we've got to scout it out, see what you want done. Just… take a look around." He peers over your shoulder into the house. You look over your shoulder too, then back at him, a little confused. You sigh, uncrossing your arms and resting your hands on your hips instead.

"Fine," you concede. "Free consultation, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean smirks. "We'll check out whatever you want."

You crease your brows at him and suddenly your cheeks feel very red as his words unfurl in your head. You quickly turn and step back, opening the door wide for them. They both step in, their demeanor becoming somehow more serious, or would you call it cautious?

They exchange a look you don't understand and Sam suddenly asks you, "Ma'am, what space were you interested in remodeling?"

Their demeanors take you a little off guard. "Uh, the basement," you answer, your brows pulling together. "Do you want me to show you?"

"Lead the way," Dean grins at you, and you turn away quickly to show them. You can almost feel his eyes. It isn't an unpleasant feeling but it makes you inexplicably nervous.

You three walk through the living room that was almost complete, through the nonexistent dining room, then to the kitchen where your dad's old tool belt rested on the counter. You'd managed to remove most of the counter top and a few of the old yellow back-splash tiles but nothing more.

"Have you been doing most of the demo yourself?" Dean asks from behind you. You don't turn around.

"Unfortunately. I didn't hear from you guys so I just got started."

They're uncomfortably silent. You turn a corner into a small hallway, and there's the door with the large knob. You noticed the big lock on it when you moved in. It struck you as strange, considering none of the other doors in the house had it. You supposed maybe the original family kept some valuables down there? You tried not to let your imagination run away with you, considering that you had to sleep in this house.

You turn the knob and slowly pull the door open. The stale stench of mildew prickles at your nose. You reach into the dark and flick on the solemn bulb hanging over the old wooden stairs. The bottom of the staircase was dark. Whoever put the light switch for the rest of the space at the bottom was an idiot. You'd only gone down with the realtor. For some reason the thought of venturing into the dark bottom on your own made you uneasy and you generally avoided this part of the house. You turn to the contractors.

"There ya go," you smile innocently. You stuff your hands in your sweatpants pockets to dry them. The basement made your insides go cold.

"Thanks," Sam nods, going around you and down the stairs one by one. Dean follows, brushing past you. You catch a whiff of the leather and a bit of… what was that, cologne?… as he went past. The scent makes your stomach turn in knots. You try to ignore it.

They reached the bottom of the squeaking staircase and Dean suddenly pulls a flashlight from his jacket pocket. They search until they find the light switch. You stay upstairs and watch them. Although the lights were on, the basement was still dark. Very dark. You didn't like it. Maybe you'd ask them to add a few windows.

They walk around your unfinished basement, almost as if they're searching for something instead of just observing. Dean coughs as dust rises from the old bookshelf he had been fingering through. You cross your arms again, but this time because you're cold.

"Can I help you guys find something?" you ask. Maybe they were looking for old water lines or something. Not that you could help. You never came down here. But hopefully when they get this place fixed up you'll want to.

"Uh, Y/N, let me ask you a question," Sam called from the opposite side of the basement. His back was to you. Dean turned to look at him. "Do you ever really come down here?"

You laugh uneasily. "No, I don't, not really. It's a little… uncomfortable. I'm hoping after you guys do some work it'll be more…" You search for words "…cheery."

Sam suddenly turns, gives Dean another look that you really don't understand, and then they both turn to you with smiles plastered on their faces. It was disarming.

"Well, Y/N, I think we've seen all that we've needed to see down here," Dean tells you. "I'm, uh, gonna need to see the rest of the house." He quickly answers your questioning look. "I need to look at some, um, electrical connections, stuff like that. For wiring."

"Sure," you answer, and for whatever reason the thought of Dean wandering around your unfinished house makes you uncomfortable. Your work so far is less than impressive.

"I'm gonna look around, Sammy. You stay down here and, uh, make sure I didn't miss anything."

Sam nods at Dean and flashes you a nervous smile. Dean walks up the staircase towards you, and suddenly your heart is pounding again. Damn. This is no way to feel around someone you're going to possibly employ. You are the definition of professional, after all. You pride yourself on it. He's standing in front of you, and you suddenly notice that cologne-like smell isn't cologne at all. It's too subtle. It's just him. It makes your spine tingle and your stomach do somersaults.

"I'm just gonna take a look around," he tells you again, and his rough voice is low. His eyes are on you and you can't bring yourself to look away this time. You're suddenly aware that your breathing is sporadic and you're begging sweet God above that he doesn't notice. You open your mouth to answer but it's caught it your throat. You hastily shut it and settle for a swift nod, again hiding your sweaty hands in your pockets. His lips lift in that half-smirk again and you swallow hard. He's even more perfect up close. Perfectly chiseled jaw, the faintest hint of a stubble, full lips, bright green eyes that could see right into you. You find yourself wondering why he's a contractor and not off modeling somewhere. Damn. Your face feels really hot again, this time it spreads down your neck and behind your ears. Suddenly your sweats seem too hot and you want to change.

Dean looks pointedly past you and then to you again, his eyebrows raised, and with painful embarrassment, you realize that you're in his way. Shit.

"S-Sorry," you stutter, finally able to look away from his face. You step aside.

He looks at the floor, smiling to himself, then back up to you. He maintains eye contact as he squeezes past you into the kitchen. His scent graces your nose once again and you suddenly feel light-headed. Dean watches you for a moment more with those smoldering green eyes, then smirks and turns to look around the rest of your home. You watch his figure disappear up your stairs.

Holy shit. You're suddenly thanking Craigslist with every fiber of your being. The air feels so much easier to breathe now that Dean has left the room. Your heart continues to pound but your furious blush begins to subside. You replay his face over and over again in your head. You remember the stare he was giving you at the front door.

You'd never really had a lot of guy experience, just a little here and there. Serial dating wasn't your thing, unlike some of your friends, so you didn't have many prior experiences to pair this up with. You did know one thing, however: a simple look from Dean alone made you feel like your heart was about to pop out of your chest and run away. Desire pools deep inside of you as you imagine him closer. Maybe ripping apart your basement, shirtless. You could bring him down water, an excuse to watch him work, even if for just a moment. You swallow loudly, leaning back against the kitchen wall for support.

You grin to yourself. You must have done something really great in a past life to have these two in your house right now. What could go wrong?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: Sam and Dean show up at you door, claiming to be contractors that arrive late to look at the space you're wanting to remodel in your newly-bought house—the basement. But are they who they say they are? And why does the one in the leather jacket keep staring at you?**

 _ **Dean x Reader, Winchester awesomeness.**_

 _ **Y/N: Your name**_

" **The Man With No Eyes"**

 **Chapter 2**

A full moon and starry sky kept the darkness at bay through your large bedroom window. The day's hard work left you sweaty and tired, the salty smell on your skin mixed with the fallen dust of the old house combined into a very unappealing scent. Feeling like you'd break out into a rash if you didn't get all of this dirt and grime off of you, you stripped into your underwear and bra, looking over yourself in the mirror. White powder and a few pink fibers of insulation clung to your shoulders and back. You made a face. Redoing houses was not your forte, but now you had help. No more being covered in unidentifiable filth every night when you got into the shower.

As you removed your undergarments, you began thinking about these contractors that finally answered your pleading calls. Overall, you were incredibly happy that they showed up, for God knew that you couldn't take on this entire house on your own, but something gnawed at you.

The water was hot when you climbed into the steam-filled shower, immediately making you sigh as you felt the grossness run off of your body and down the drain. As you squeezed shampoo into your hand and began to distribute it through your dusty tresses, your thoughts wandered. These guys surely didn't look like contractors, but of course, all contractors don't always look the same. What was it about them that made you suspicious? After all, they showed up in flannels, jeans, work boots, and leather–not exactly an out-of-the-ordinary wardrobe for people who did manual labor. Was it the fact that they both seemed entirely too gorgeous to be contracting for a living? Yes, that bugged you, those two staying hidden away working on houses was a crime if there ever was one, they needed to be on magazine covers or something. You quickly reprimanded yourself. So what if their life's ambition was to do construction, what business of that was yours? You steered your thoughts away from the avenue of their handsome features, especially Dean's. That man just does something to you.

With your cheeks blazing hot for reasons besides hopping out of a warm shower, you tried to clear your head as you shook out the towel and squeezed the water out of your hair. You needed to sleep well tonight, and thinking about Sam and Dean was definitely going to keep you wide awake.

When you were finally dry, you walked into your bedroom with your hair wrapped in the soft towel and retrieved an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt that had been your father's and a pair of underwear to sleep in. Nothing was better than sleeping in overlarge t-shirts. You brushed out your hair, put it in a braid so that it would hopefully look wavy in the morning, and then settled between your cool and impossibly comfortable sheets.

With the ceiling fan turning circles, blowing cool air on your face while your bed kept you very warm, sleep wasn't far away. Just as you were drifting into your own world, studying the patterns of moonlight on your vaulted ceiling, something made you jump out of the land between wakefulness and dreams.

There were bangs downstairs.

They weren't loud, or often enough to make you think there was an intruder, but every few minutes what you could only assume was the old house made a sound that caused a shiver down your spine. This wasn't the first night you'd heard these noises, or you might have gone downstairs with your .49 just in case, but it was still hard to sleep when the house settled like this. You tried to make a mental note to talk to Sam and Dean about these noises, maybe it was a problem that could be resolved.

The air conditioning cut on and your door popped open an inch, startling you. You laughed at yourself. You loved this old house, there was no reason to be afraid. While you very much believed in the paranormal, you'd done your research before buying the home. No one, to your knowledge, had passed away in the house, and previous owners all seemed wholesome enough. You had nothing to worry about. But that didn't completely pacify you, because sleep took at least another forty minutes to arrive.

You were in your bed. The house had gone quiet. The fan turned silently, the air conditioning was a soft hum in the background. But no creature outside your window made a noise. Where were the cricket chirps you'd grown so accustomed to? Where was the occasional hoot of an owl or buzz of an insect's wing against your window panes? They were gone.

Thinking this odd, your brows furrowed. You studied the moonlight squares on your ceiling again, counting them as a way to calm yourself. But with a jolt, you realized that they were fading. The moonlight was fading. No, you didn't want it to fade! You wanted the light to stay. You told yourself it was a sudden cloud, but the tantalizingly slow disappearance of what helped you remember there was something besides the dark, that there was vision, something that you could see, tore at you until your room was almost pitch black.

You took a deep breath and exhaled, willing yourself to go back to sleep. There was nothing to be feared from the dark... except everything. You suddenly felt suffocated. You reached to flick on your lamp, but the clicking was fruitless, the lamp did not work and its light did not shine for you. The darkness pressed in on you further, taking your breath away. Your internal pep talk fell silent and fear overwhelmed you. You made a motion to hop out of bed, to turn on your bedroom light, but you couldn't. You couldn't move. You were frozen, your arms glued to your side and your legs stuck to the mattress. You couldn't even move your head. You tried to scream, thinking that maybe, _maybe_ someone would hear, someone would come to your rescue, someone would come bearing light. But only muffled gasps of air came from your mouth, your vocal chords were frozen as well.

Something was moving in the darkness. It was an intense black among the slightly grayer backdrop of your bedroom. It was huge, it was moving towards your helpless form, stuck on the mattress with nowhere to go and with no means to call for help. Your body physically sank into the pillowtop as the black mass came nearer, the only sound the thundering of your own blood in your eardrums. It quickened, it hurt, your heart was going to burst out of your chest, oh how it burned, oh your chest burned white hot! But you couldn't scream, only a river of tears streamed down your cheeks. But then the pain in your chest was nothing compared to the pain in your head, your forehead, your eyes. Your eyes felt like they were being ripped from their sockets, an intense pain sinking around your eyeballs and grappling into the nerves behind, like it was digging in. Where was the big black mass, the one in the room with you? Where was it? You couldn't see. You couldn't hear anything but your pounding heartbeat. You couldn't feel anything but pain, sickening pain, behind your eyes, in your chest, your heart threatening to explode from the stress of it all—

You bolted up in bed, breathing like you'd just run a marathon, sweat pouring down every inch of your body, your sheets drenched. The moonlight was still in place, your fan still turned in lazy circles, and your air was still softly blowing. The creatures outside were once again vocal. It was like nothing had happened at all.

Desperately wiping at your face, realizing that many tears mingled with the sweat, a thought occurred to you, with a mangled sense of panic and relief. You had been dreaming. It was a nightmare, a simple nightmare, nothing more than something concocted by your brain because of the noises you had heard before you'd drifted off. That was all. Gasping and still crying, your head aching, you pressed your hand to your chest, and your heart was thumping fast, the blood still pounding in your ears. You sat there for a long time, taking long deep breaths and telling yourself over and over again that it wasn't real, that it was all in your mind, that none of it really happened.

You glanced around the room for anything out of the ordinary, but it was all normal. You flicked the switch on your lamp, and to your joy it flooded your room with a comforting golden color, banishing some of your panicked thoughts. You glanced around again.

Your door was completely open.

Your breath hitched in your throat. But you quickly waved your fears away with reason. The air conditioning had popped it open before you fell asleep, it clearly just inched open a little more as the air forced itself in and out of your room. It was no big deal. The light from the lamp seemed to give you courage, and you left your bed for your bathroom, desperate to dry off and wash your face. With a pang, you realized that your hair was clinging to your face and you could once again smell yourself, making your shower before bed absolutely useless.

You turned on your bathroom light, sighing as you reveled in the cold water, splashing it over your face and neck. For a while you just stood there with your head in your hands, bowed down by the sink, breathing. The sound of your own breath going in, out, in, out, calmed you. You removed your hands and faced the mirror.

You yelped. It was your eyes. They were bloodshot, swollen. Not swollen or red from crying, but it looked like someone had punched you in the face. With shaking breaths you inched closer to the mirror, and with gentle fingers prodded your eyelids. It stung and you quickly withdrew your fingers. There were scratches. There were lines surrounding your lids, above your eyebrows, down your cheeks. They were swelling and looked like they had only recently stopped bleeding. Hot tears began to sneak through, making your eyes and injuries sting. You had to have been scratching at your face while you were dreaming, that had to be where the pain had come from. What else would have caused it? You didn't want to think about it.

A little reluctantly, you trudged down the stairs, turning on every light in the house as you went. You triple checked to make sure all of your doors were locked. They were. You turned on the kitchen light and avoided some of the tools on the floor as you walked towards the fridge, a nice cold icepack on your mind. You wrapped it in a clean dishtowel and pressed it over your eyes and cheeks, relief flooding through you immediately. You sat down on the ripped apart counter top, propping you elbows on your thighs and laying your head down in the icepack. You didn't want to look up, you didn't want to leave this spot. It was light, it was home, it was relief.

You don't know how long you stayed there, but by the time the ice pack had gone soggy, you looked up through squinted eyes and saw the first rays of sunlight peeking through your kitchen window above the sink. What time was it? Your microwave told you it was 4:30 a.m. The contractors would be here in two hours, and the opportunity for sleep had vanished. You honestly didn't want to go back to sleep, regardless of the aching exhaustion that ragged your body. You didn't want to revisit that pitch black version of your room, a stranger invading your senses.

Deciding that you would wear plenty of makeup today to hide the scratches and bloodshot skin, you stomped back up the stairs toward your shower, never turning out any of the lights.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary: Sam and Dean show up at you door, claiming to be contractors that arrive late to look at the space you're wanting to remodel in your newly-bought house—the basement. But are they who they say they are? And why does the one in the leather jacket keep staring at you?**

 _ **Dean x Reader, Winchester awesomeness.**_

 _ **Y/N: Your name**_

" **The Man with No Eyes"**

 **Chapter 3**

When the familiar knock sounded at the front door, you jumped a mile into the air. You surveyed your appearance in your full-body mirror one last time. Your clothes were passable (you gave extra attention to your shirt choice, making sure that it hugged your curves and was a notable 80s Rock band). Your makeup was as good as it was going to get, and with relief you realized that you could blame the redness on lack of sleep and allergies. You shining hair was in light waves and caught the light as it cascaded down your shoulders, and you had to admit, it looked pretty damn good. You had been drenched in sweat and dust yesterday, the boys would hardly recognize you now.

You bit your bottom lip nervously as you descended the stairs, then quickly stopped when you realized that you may be smudging your subtle lip color. They knocked again, and you sped up your pace. Without even looking through the peep hole, you clicked open the deadbolt, slid the chain back, and swung the door open with what you would soon realize was an overly-eager grin.

Sam and Dean suddenly stood up straighter with plastered smiles, trying to hide the conversation they'd obviously been having before you opened the door.

"H-hi, guys," you smiled. You flushed at the sound of your own voice, high-pitched and weak. _Damn,_ what were you, a middle-schooler?

Sam was returning your smile, albeit slightly awkward, and Dean's smirk was so pronounced that you absolutely refused to look at him. You weren't some ditzy house girl, and you immediately tried to talk some sense into yourself. _Get it together, Y/N, get it together!_

"Come on in," you ushered, attempting to cover an awkward silence, stepping back and opening the door wide enough to let the two guys enter the foyer. "Before you two get to work, do you want anything to drink? Water, soda, beer?"

"Beer," Dean piped up immediately. You raised your brows at Sam.

"Yeah, I guess I'll take one too, thanks," he nodded. You quickly walked into the kitchen, leaving the boys in the living room, anxious to hide your face even if it was for a few seconds. You rolled your eyes at yourself. You needed to get a grip and get down to business, nothing good would come from anything your subconscious kept trying to pelt you with. After drawing out your absence for as long as you could, you strutted back into the room with three beers in tow, feeling slightly taller.

The two massive guys huddled on your couch made the piece of furniture look tiny, and it made you smile. They returned your friendly grin as you handed them their beverages.

"So," you sighed, feeling a little less awestruck in their presence, "you guys had a good look around yesterday. What's the damage?"

They exchanged a loaded glance.

"Well, we noticed that a lot of work needed to be done in the basement, of course," Sam explained, suddenly all business. Dean took a swig of his beer and you did your very best not to make eye contact with him, still embarrassed from your over-excitement at the front door. "Let us ask you something first, before we dive into details. Do you ever experience anything, I don't know, strange? Whether it's with temperature, anything?"

You furrowed your brows in confusion. "Strange? What do you mean?"

"You know, cold spots, noises..." Dean prompted you, leaning forward and propping his knees on his elbows, looking you full in the face. You ignored the frantic fluttering in your chest and continued to feel confused. Sam quickly cut in.

"We're trying to see if maybe there are any spots in the home that fluctuate in temperature, because that could be the first place we should replace the insulation," Sam said. You nodded in understanding.

"We also need to know if you're hearing any unusual sounds," Dean said, catching your eye again, "so we can replace any rotting wood or unstable flooring that needs to be checked out."

"Well, actually, I was thinking about this last night," you laughed. "I, uh, well I went to bed, and right as I was falling asleep I started hearing stuff down here."

The boys both sat up straighter, suddenly very attentive. You felt a blush creep from the back of your neck, around your ears, and up to your cheeks as the hazel and green eyes scanned you like x-rays.

"What exactly did you hear?" Dean asked, his beer now forgotten on your new side table. You cleared your throat uncomfortably, shrugging.

"I mean, it's not that big of a deal, last night wasn't the first time I've heard stuff. It's an old house," you reasoned, laughing, but it sounded a little fake even to your own ears. It must have to Sam and Dean as well because they seemed pretty unmoved by your conclusion. "I mean, it was just a few bangs here and there, creaking. The house settling, you know." You leaned back in your armchair, trying to relieve the tension from your lower back. You were beginning to recall your nightmare.

"Have you been hearing these... sounds since you moved in?" Sam asked.

"Pretty much, they happen almost every night. Temperature cooling down makes this old place groan." Your nails dug into the arm of your chair, fending off the memories of the black shape rendering you helpless. "I was actually going to ask if you guys could do anything about some of the stuff I hear, it's bound to be something that needs replacing."

"Yeah, sure," Dean said, but his eyes were on your hand. Your knuckles were white against the fabric, your fingernails beginning to ache with the pressure. You chuckled uneasily and quickly intertwined your fingers in your lap, willing them to stay still.

"What about the temperature changes, Y/N?" Sam asked, and his eyes were on your hands too. Damn, these two were observant. You supposed that's what made them good contractors.

"Well, the basement is always cold, but I'm pretty sure there's close to no kind of insulation down there," you explained. "It's just a really uncomfortable space, there's no light and it's always freezing. I was hoping you guys could finish up the walls and maybe add a few windows."

Dean nodded. "We noticed. Is there anywhere else?"

"Um, not really," you said, then backtracked. "Well, occasionally my bedroom temp will drop like crazy, but I know the A/C blows _a lot_ of cold air into my room. It makes my door move around. But it really doesn't bother me that much."

"We'll, uh, we'll take a look at it," Dean said casually, taking another sip of his beer. You did your very best not to stare at his full lips as they curved around the bottle, but you seriously doubted you were successful, because when Sam suddenly cleared his throat, you jumped a little in your chair. Dean's annoying smirk surfaced again, his lips never disconnecting from the bottle. Damn him.

You turned back to Sam, knowing full well that the blush on your face was worse than ever. "So, have you come up with a rough estimate? How much is this gonna cost me?"

For the first time, the taller of the two seemed slightly uncomfortable.

"Honestly, uh, ma'am, we haven't come up with any concrete numbers yet, there is still things to check." He ran his hand through his thick brown hair. "Do you mind too much if we keep, you know, looking around at what needs to be done?"

You narrowed your eyes. How long was this consultation going to take?

"Yeah, I guess so. Whatever you guys need to do. And it's not going to cost me anything, right?"

Dean stood up and twirled the empty beer bottle in his hand, winking at you. "No, ma'am. Free consultation, remember?"

"Right."

You ignored the ever darkening blush that his wink made worse and tried to push down the slight irritation bubbling up in your veins. As the two returned to the basement, you idly wondered how many more days they would need to "check things out". You were ready for demo to begin and for some work to get done. Of course, you reminded yourself, they _were_ from Craigslist. Did you really expect top qaulity? They had already proven that punctuality wasn't their strong suit.

* * *

You pulled your heaviest hammer out of your father's old tool belt and twisted it in your hands. You were finally about to bust out the last of this hideous back splash and someone's terrible excuse for a counter top. You decided to continue working in the kitchen, not only because it was the last space that needed major work, but because you were steps away from the open basement door and you wanted to keep an eye on what your contractors were up to. Granted, you couldn't see them from up here, and you didn't want to go down the rickety wooden staircase to inspect further, but you could hear them moving around, talking, pulling tools out of their large bags and cases. At least they seemed to be working.

You began to hammer the smithereens out of the horrifyingly yellow tile, broken pieces flying everywhere and sweat dripping down your face and arms, solidifying your hard effort and literally mixing your perspiration into the home itself. What was it that they say? Blood, sweat, and tears? Well, in the last 24 hours you'd experienced all three and the finished product better be freaking worth it!

You swung your arms over your head and with every crashing pound, both hands on the hammer, you let all of your frustration vent out of you as the metal collided with the shattering tile. Piece after piece cracked and fragmented, your body moving repeatedly in one swift motion, the sheer strength running through your taut muscles. You continued relentlessly, not stopping to take a break or a breather, your pace just quickening the closer you drew to that last freaking tile. Pieces flew and scratched at your arms, but you didn't care. It was almost cathartic.

A throat clearing loudly behind you broke you from your demolition revere. You sighed and tossed the hammer onto the floor, pulling up your plastic safety goggles, and turned to face the boys. They were standing there, side by side, watching you with the oddest looks on their faces. They almost looked impressed.

You wiped your drenched forehead with the back of your arm, just now realizing how out of breath you really were. You propped your hands on your hips and raised your eyebrows.

"What up, guys?"

Sam pointed towards the front door, momentarily trying to find his words. "Uh, we, uh, we were going to go grab some lunch if that's alright."

You nodded, smiling at the fact that they were considerate enough to ask you if the timing of their lunch break was convenient. "Yeah, yeah, sure, go ahead. You guys don't have to ask me."

Sam nodded and with a small smile, headed towards the door. Dean made to follow. You turned back towards the counter, appraised your work, then grabbed the front tail of your Pink Floyd t-shirt and lifted it, wiping off your sweaty face and neck.

A deep voice coughed, and you nearly jumped out of your skin. Dean was standing in the kitchen doorway, hands in his jean pockets, his expression a poorly hidden mix of pride and guilt at being caught watching your little moment.

Your felt your face go tomato red, although you hoped that you were sweaty enough for the color to pass as the result of manual labor. You'd basically just flashed Dean and given him a lovely little show with full view of your bra and stomach. You did your best to laugh off the moment.

"Damn, sorry!" you giggled uncomfortably, "I thought you'd left with Sam! Didn't mean to sexually harass you on your second day."

He shrugged and smiled at you, revealing a row of straight white teeth. Hot damn. Subtle little crinkles appeared at the corners of his breathtaking green eyes when he full-on smiled like that, and if anything it just made him impossibly more attractive. You reigned in your thoughts before you started drooling.

"Sweetheart, I don't mind," he smirked. You rolled your eyes at him and he snorted. "Sam and I, we were planning on getting something from a diner down the road. I was gonna ask if you wanted us to grab you something."

You tried to hide your grin at his thoughtfulness, deciding that he'd seen quite enough of your blushing for one day, so you turned towards the kitchen sink and shrugged.

"I appreciate it, but I don't really have any cash on me right now," you said, turning on the cold water and splashing it onto your face, basking in the way it relaxed your hot skin.

"Well then, I'll cover it, no big deal."

You shook your head, your eyes still closed, running your hands up and down over your face. The cold water felt so good. At last, you reached for a paper towel and patted your face and neck dry, turning to him.

"That's really nice of you, but I'm okay," you tried to smile convincingly. In reality, you had almost nothing here to eat, but you hated it when people spent money on you. "I'll, uh, warm up some ramen or something."

Dean's eyes were on your face, the endless green drilling into you. He walked towards you with a kind of swagger, hands still in his pockets, and you suddenly noticed how the small green stripes in his flannel matched his eyes perfectly. His iridescent orbs were glued to yours, and yours were glued in return. You didn't want to look away this time. His face was so beautiful that your brain seemed to have trouble wrapping around what it was seeing, like his jaw, nose, and cheekbones had been carved out of stone.

"Look, the food isn't much, but if it bothers you just take it out of my check."

You raised your eyebrows skeptically. He returned the expression. Despite your best efforts, the tiniest of smiles crept onto your face.

"You're sure?"

"Positive. What do you want?"

You bit your lip in thought. You'd been sweating like a maniac for hours now, and honestly nothing sounded better than meat.

"Get me their A-1 cheeseburger. Double-decker. No tomato, but extra bacon," you grinned guiltily. Dean cracked an appraising smile, like you'd just told him exactly what he'd wanted to hear. You laughed. "What?"

"Cheeseburger with extra bacon and you love classic rock." He shook his head, like he was trying to clear it. "Your taste ain't bad, Y/N." You lifted and dropped your shoulders in a comical shrug.

But his expression suddenly changed, so quickly that it took you aback. He stepped closer, and you could suddenly smell his unique scent of leather and the outdoors. But something was wrong. His brows were pushed together, forming a 'V' that creased his forehead. His proximity was the last thing on your mind when he spoke.

"Y/N, what happened to your eyes?"

" _Shit_ ," you hissed before you could stop yourself. You quickly backtracked, avoiding his strong gaze and suddenly finding your dirty work boots very interesting. "It's nothing, really. Allergies. They suck around here, ya know?" With a pang, you realized that you'd sweated off and unintentionally rinsed clean all of your carefully applied makeup. You could feel that it was bruising. Throughout the day you'd accidentally rubbed your face quite a few times and quickly withdrew your hands when the tender pain pulsed through you.

All playfulness was gone from his voice. He was serious, almost business-like. You even thought you detected a hint of something angry there. His eyes were glinting.

"Allergies don't bruise. Those weren't there yesterday." He repeated himself, his deep voice sharp. "Y/N, what happened?"

This was silly. For a reason you didn't understand, you suddenly felt defensive. Who was this guy, your doctor? It was nice of him to be concerned, but this was overdoing it.

"Look, Dean, I appreciate the concern but it's really nothing," you said through your teeth, the words coming out with a little more venom than you'd intended. You'd met this dude yesterday and you suddenly felt interrogated. Who the hell does he think he is?

He pressed his lips together angrily, holding back something he very obviously was bursting to say. He exhaled through his nose like an irritated bull, then turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen. A few seconds later you heard your front door close, maybe a little harder than necessary.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary: Sam and Dean show up at you door, claiming to be contractors that arrive late to look at the space you're wanting to remodel in your newly-bought house—the basement. But are they who they say they are? And why does the one in the leather jacket keep staring at you?**

 _ **Dean x Reader, Winchester awesomeness.**_

 _ **Y/N: Your name**_

 _ **Y/L/N: Your last name**_

" **The Man with No Eyes"**

 **Chapter 4**

It was only about twenty minutes before Sam and Dean returned. You had run upstairs to wash your face (very gently) and apply more makeup. Dean had already seen your swollen eyes so you didn't know why you cared so much about covering it up again. Honestly, you just didn't want them staring at you. But as soon as you came down the stairs to meet them, you knew immediately that Dean had told Sam. The moment you stepped foot at the bottom of the stairs, they were staring at you, and Sam had this annoyingly endearing look of concern on his face that you found yourself unable to be too irritated with.

You decided to pretend that nothing had happened. You certainly weren't bringing it up. What business was it of theirs that you had a nightmare last night? You avoided their eyes, especially Dean's, not enjoying the way he'd become aggravated with you before he'd left.

"Thanks, guys," you said after clearing your throat, walking by them and taking the bag of food from Dean's hand without looking up from the floor. You walked to the kitchen, sat the bag down on the old kitchen table, and hastily opened the to-go box. You could hear their footsteps following you into the kitchen and you wanted your mouth full of food before their potential interrogation. Maybe they'd leave you alone.

"Y/N, is it alright if we talk to you about something?" Sam started as he walked through the doorway, trying to hide his surprise at your comically stuffed mouthful of burger. Dean was in tow, cracking a crinkle-eyed smile at the sight of you attacking the food before he seemed to remember that he was supposed to be annoyed with you. His expression changed immediately as he locked a scowl into place and crossed his arms, but as you continued to down your lunch, the scowl didn't reach his eyes.

You sighed through your nose since your mouth was a bit full. They obviously weren't dropping this, for whatever strange reason. "Shoot," you replied, the word coming out a bit more like 'shoo' through the meat and bacon.

"Dean and I were talking," he began, ignoring the annoyed glance Dean sent his way at being mentioned, "and we think that—and I know this may sound extreme—you may need to move out of the house while we, you know, start demolition."

You struggled to swallow your food in time to express your shock. They couldn't be serious.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," you managed to spit out after a particularly painful swallow, "you guys are mostly working on the basement. Why in the world do I need to leave?"

"Well, you complained about a few temperature problems in your room," Dean cut in as Sam took a seat across from you, "and after I looked around up there yesterday, I think some serious work needs to be done."

"Serious work?" you repeated, hardly believing your ears. Not only had this come out of nowhere, but this was beginning to sound expensive. Could you afford this? If this was going to require ripping out the drywall in your bedroom, you could just go without. "Look, guys, I can just sleep on the couch or something. I don't even know if I want much more work done up there, it's fine to me. I don't have furniture for the guest room yet but if I need to I'm sure I can scrounge up something."

"You could get a motel room nearby," Sam suggested, using his sincerest tone, and once again you found it a bit difficult to be aggravated.

"I'm gonna be honest with you two. Between paying my new mortgage and all of the reno bills for this place, not to mention buying furniture, paying the moving guys, _and_ paying you two, I really can't afford to go anywhere right now." The homemade fries in front of you suddenly became very interesting. Admitting that you financially were a bit strung was embarrassing. And you didn't want Sam and Dean thinking that you wouldn't be able to pay them when the time came.

They exchanged a loaded glance, making you uncomfortable, but when Dean opened his mouth to say something, the conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the cellphone in your pocket. Anxious to put some distance between yourself and the guys, you quickly stood out of your chair, took one more handful of fries, stuffed them in your mouth, and apologized.

"Sowwy, I should take this caw," you smiled through the french fries protruding from your mouth. Sam and Dean barely had time to answer before you were out the kitchen door, through the dining room, through the living room, and standing in the foyer. You swallowed down your food and slid the answer button for the unfamiliar number. Your brows furrowed. "Hello?"

"Hello, may I speak to Y/N Y/L/N, please?" asked a polite male voice. Your brows furrowed further.

"Uh, this is she," you answered hesitantly.

"Wonderful. Miss Y/L/N, this is Bradley with Improvement Housing, Inc. I wanted to apologize profusely for taking so long to get back with you." You sighed in relief.

"Look, don't worry about it," you began.

"No, really, the period of time that you had to wait for us to return your call is absolutely inexcusable and not the way we usually conduct business. If you're still interested in taking our business, we'd love to add a 30% credit to your account."

"Well, that sounds great," you grinned. That definitely wouldn't hurt with the bills. "I know that these things happen. You guys couldn't help that your computers went down."

"Uh, well, we didn't really have any computer issues," Bradley answered, sounding a bit confused. "We just seemed to lose your number in the shuffle of the holiday work. But we will send a few guys to your address first thing tomorrow morning, if that's convenient for you."

You laughed uneasily. "Well, that's not what one of your employees told me. There must be another mix up because you guys have already sent out two people. They showed up yesterday."

There was an awkward silence on the other end of the line. "Hmm, really? Well, let me double check our appointments, I could have sworn that no one had gotten back with you yet." You heard the quick typing of computer keys.

You decided to help out. "If it jogs your memory, their names are Sam and Dean."

The sound of the crunching keyboard stopped. It was silent again. Bradley cleared his throat. "Ma'am, we have no record of anyone being assigned to your address. And as far as I know, there's no one employed here by the names of Sam and Dean."

Your blood went cold. A shudder ran through your spine, your eyes prickling. "There has to be some mistake. Maybe they're new?"

Bradley's voice sounded distant. "Hey, Jack, do we have any new hires named Sam and Dean?"

An even more distant voice answered him. "Nah, man, we haven't hired anyone since Marcus."

You nearly dropped your phone. You were collapsing against the front door for support, breaking into a cold sweat, sliding down it slowly until your bottom hit the floor.

"No, ma'am, no one here by the name of Sam and Dean. Was there any chance you'd called another contracting organization?"

You almost couldn't answer, fear creeping through your veins like an army of cold spiders.

"No, no, I—I didn't call anyone else," you whispered. Your voice sounded completely foreign. "If—if they're not with you guys, then...then..." Your eyes snapped in the direction of the living room. "Who's in my kitchen?"

"Ma'am... are you—?" But he didn't get a chance to finish. You'd hung up on him and tossed your phone to the floor.

The pure, unfiltered fear was pumping through your veins, your limbs shaking and your eyes stinging. Your brain was whirring at 1000 miles per hour, puzzle pieces suddenly sliding together. They seemed a bit nervous at your door yesterday when you'd asked who they were, they'd had plenty of time to perform a consultation and they seemed uncomfortable whenever you mentioned payment, Dean was abnormally interested in whatever happened to you last night, and now they were trying to convince you to leave your home for an extended amount of time.

So many red flags—they were so easily able to lie to you. But worst of all? They were trying to push you out of your home, leaving them alone in it. They were nice enough yesterday and today to gain your trust, now they were trying to push you out to... what? Steal everything you had? And they knew how broke you were, and they were still trying to manipulate you, harm you in some way, or they wouldn't be posing as contractors.

Were they dangerous? It may not seem like it at first, but would they be successful at what they did if they instantly scared people away? They were both big, muscular guys, over six feet tall. They could easily hurt you or hold you captive (or worse), if they desired. In the midst of your fear, shame flooded your system. You'd been not only trusting of them, but you'd been thinking further, in ways you shouldn't, especially regarding Dean. A man you barely knew, you let his looks completely took you off guard, his charm disarming any inhibitions you may have had. And he was a stranger, most likely a criminal, in your home. In the other room. Along with his even bigger partner.

What were you to do? Call the police? But they were so observant, would they notice that something was off? Would they flee before the cops arrived? It wasn't like you could hold them.

You didn't hesitate. You hopped up, suddenly spurred on by adrenaline, and ran up your stairs. There was a pistol in your nightstand and you were a damn good shot, your father had made sure of that when you moved off on your own. You didn't want to use it if you didn't have to, but now that you knew these two were strangers were lying to your face about who they were and their intentions, you weren't safe.

You bolted into your room, yanked open the top drawer of your nightstand, and grabbed the .45. You stuffed it into the back of your jeans, snugly pulling your shirt tail over it. You quickly appraised your appearance in your mirror, hoping that you didn't look flustered enough to raise suspicion. You looked at yourself hard, a rough breath leaving your lips. You had to toughen up. You were in danger, and you had no idea what the two massive guys downstairs intended for you.

You strode down your stairs with confidence, but as you neared the kitchen, it began to seep out of you. Who was to say they didn't have weapons? You were nearing the doorway.

They were gone. They weren't in your kitchen. Sam's chair was empty, Dean was absent. You froze. Fear overtook your body once again.

There was a noise, tools knocking together. Bags being shaken.

They were in your basement.

You took a shaking breath, very aware of the cold metal pressed against your back. Your fear of the dark, dank basement was the last thing on your mind as you descended the stairs, each squeaking with every step you took. Sam and Dean's voices stopped as they heard you approaching, and anger pumped through your body. All of the loaded glances and halted conversations made perfect sense now.

"Hey, guys," you greeted as casually as you could. They were both facing you, smiling plastered smiles that you used to find disarming, but now you gathered that it was a sign for when they were doing something that they shouldn't be doing. "So, I just spoke to the bank. And moving out for some of the renovation isn't an option. So just forget about working on my bedroom."

"Is there anyone you could stay with?" Sam prompted. You narrowed your eyes.

"No. There isn't." Awkward silence ensued. "I can't pay for it. So it's not happening. I don't need to leave anymore if you aren't working on my room. Right?"

"Gas lines!" Dean suddenly exclaimed. Sam nodded profusely. You rose your eyebrows. He laughed uneasily. "There are gas lines down here, and there's, uh... there's a chance of a leak while we're working. It'd probably be safer if you weren't here."

"Well, then, I guess that's a risk that I'm willing to take," you spat. They looked surprised at the venom in your tone. "I'm not leaving. It's just not happening."

The silence in the basement felt deafening. Sam and Dean quickly glanced at each other before their eyes fell on you, and you stood your ground, staring right back. Uncertainty clouded your brain as they continued to assess you, and you felt X-rayed. You were too defensive, they had to be onto you. You'd fucked up. Did they know?

Dean took a quick step toward you, surprising you, and your hand instantly flew to your back. His green eyes darted downward, and you knew you'd stupidly given yourself away. He knew. They knew.

Before they could act, you took the offensive. You drew it out as fast as you possibly could, clicked off the safety, and placed your finger on the trigger. Your body was shaking, but your hands weren't. They were as steady as could be. Sam and Dean quickly stepped back, both of their hands shooting into the air.

" _Who the fuck are you_?" you spat in a deadly whisper. "That wasn't my bank, that was the _actual_ contracting company that I'd contacted. They'd _never_ sent anyone out, they'd never _heard_ of you." You trained the gun at their chests in turn. "You _lied to me_ about who you are, now you're trying to get me out of my house."

"Y/N, please, listen," Sam said calmly, maintaining eye contact with you. His hands remained in the air. "You're right, we have been lying. But you have to believe us, we—"

"Why should I believe a single thing you say?" you demanded, not moving the gun despite Sam's pleading eyes. "You two have been lying to my face. I _let you into my home_."

"You should listen to us because your life is on the line," Dean stated, his voice as deep and serious as it was when he'd confronted you in the kitchen.

"Excuse me?!" you demanded, pointing the .45 at the space between his eyes. Did he just threaten you?!

"No, no, no, no!" Sam insisted, jumping at the space between you and Dean. "He didn't mean it that way! _Please_ , just hear us out."

"Sammy, move," Dean commanded, stepping in front of him and shielding him from your weapon. His green eyes leveled with yours, and despite your best efforts and the anger and fear pumping through your veins, you couldn't make yourself look away.

"Dean—" Sam cautioned.

"Y/N, right here, okay?" Dean's deep voice radiated through your chest, and he motioned to his eyes with his raised hands. You didn't look away, but your eyes shone with doubt. His beautiful green ones emitted nothing but comfort with an undertone of urgency. "This is gonna sound insane, but you're in danger." You opened your mouth to retort, but he stopped you. "And _no_ , not because of us. Look, me and Sam, we save people. There are... _things_ that hurt people, innocent people, and we think that you might be in danger."

"Things? What the hell are you talking about?" you demanded, but the venom was beginning to leave your voice. You'd subconsciously lowered the gun from Dean's face to his stomach.

"Think about it," Sam said from behind Dean. "You've heard noises every night, there are constant temperature fluctuations, and it's always cold, especially down here, right?"

"What are you saying?" you asked, brows furrowing. "That—that there's a ghost or something in my house?! That's ridiculous."

"It's... it's possible," Sam replied. You looked back and forth between them, your gun still not completely lowered. You didn't just have criminals in your home, you had psychopaths.

You took a few steps back, Dean's eyes silently trying to calm you.

"You're... you're insane..." you whispered, raising your gun back to full height. "Get out of my house. Now."

"Y/N, please, you don't understand," Sam tried to reason with you, taking a step forward. You pointed the .45 toward Sam.

" _Get out_ , or I'm calling the cops," you hissed. You motioned the barrel toward the stairs. "Don't come back, or I'm unloading this magazine into your asses."

"Calm down, okay? We're leaving," Dean said quickly, Sam rushing up the stairs behind him and out of sight. But Dean didn't follow. You didn't move the gun away from his chest.

"Dean, go," you cautioned. He didn't move. Then he began to step toward you, slowly, step by step, his eyes never leaving yours. "Stop!"

The only answer you heard was the insane pounding of your heart in your own ears. You cocked the gun back, making him pause, his eyes snapping toward the gun then back to you. Would you really shoot him?

"Listen to me," he pleaded quietly, and he stepped forward one more time. The cold metal of the barrel was now directly against his chest, but his eyes never left yours. You should have been terrified, but the longer Dean looked at you, the more tension melted from your body. "You can think that we're crazy all day long, even think that we're criminals. But you can't tell me that those scratches on your face are from allergies."

You audibly gulped. There's no way that he could know. It was just a bad dream, just a nightmare. "It's—it's nothing."

"It's not nothing and you know it," he replied, firmly wrapping his hand around the barrel. You watched him do it but you didn't try to stop him. "Y/N. You've seen things. I know you have. I know that this sounds crazy and that you have no reason to trust a single thing that we say. But you trust us. You trust me, I know you do."

You felt the corners of your eyes sting with the intensity of his gaze. His deep voice resonated within you. "And how do you know that?" you asked. Your voice was barely audible.

The corner of his mouth pulled up into the slightest, almost undetectable smirk. He looked down at the gun, now loose in your hand, buried into his chest. "Well, for one thing, you haven't shot me yet."

You let out a disbelieving laugh. Slowly, Dean very gently twisted the gun from your hand. You let him. And although you knew that this should have been incredibly stupid, when his emerald eyes met yours again, all you felt was a heady mixture of calm, adrenaline, blood drumming in your ears, and heat engulfing your face. All you could think about was how if you really were in danger, these two were the ones that you would want to protect you. You'd want Dean to protect you.

"So," he said, charm intact, "if I come back are you still gonna unload a magazine into my ass?"

You searched his beautiful eyes and tried to hide your nervous smile as the corners of his mouth twitched with humor. "I don't know, I might," you countered, unable to hide your grin any longer, the tension very quickly leaving the room.

His eyes still didn't leave yours as he called to Sam, letting him know that it was safe to come back downstairs. Sam looked surprised and relieved as he saw the gun safely in Dean's hands and out of yours.

"Are we good to go?" Sam asked hesitantly, cautiously watching you as he descended the stairs.

"I'm sorry, guys," you said feebly, shaking your head. "That—" you look pointedly toward the .45 resting by Dean's side "—wasn't necessary. All I knew was that two guys that could easily overpower me were in my house and lying to me about who they were, I—"

"Y/N, really, it's okay," Sam insisted, that incredibly sincere look that you were growing to love gracing his face. "Anyone in your situation would've done the same thing."

Dean's hand patted your back, but it lingered. You hoped that you weren't still blushing like a school girl when you spoke. "Well, guys, you just told me that... _something_... is in my home. I've spent too much money on this old thing to give it up. I might be going crazy, but... what do we do now?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary: Sam and Dean show up at you door, claiming to be contractors that arrive late to look at the space you're wanting to remodel in your newly-bought house—the basement. But are they who they say they are? And why does the one in the leather jacket keep staring at you?**

 _ **Dean x Reader, Winchester awesomeness.**_

 **WARNINGS: Gore, blood, abuse, self-mutilation (awful, I know)**

" **The Man With No Eyes"**

 **Chapter 5**

"So let me get this straight. You two think that the ghost of a serial killer is in my house, and not only that, but that he tortured people down in that basement?"

The three of you were sitting at your kitchen table with beers in your hands, Sam's eyes constantly flashing between you and whatever new findings he found on his laptop. Dean was sitting beside him with no distraction to keep himself from watching you as much as he pleased. The look in his eyes made you squirm, and whether it was for a good reason or a bad reason, you couldn't really tell. They both seemed to think that this entire situation would be too much for you, that you'd have a mental break down at any second.

Your eyes slowly trained toward the open basement door, the darkness dense and unforgiving inside of it. The most primal of your instincts always told you to avoid that basement, but you'd chalked it up to... well... _logical_ inferences, like the fact you were just a coward when it came to creepy spaces. Your gaze snapped to the giant old lock by the knob, and a shiver ran down your spine. No other door in the house had a lock like that.

"Well yep, that's basically it," Dean sighed through his nose, taking a last gulp of beer and slamming it on the table in confirmation. "No nice way to put it."

"But realtors are required by law to tell you if anyone has died in your house," you insisted, looking for any excuse as to why they would be mistaken. "She would've told me when I took the tour—"

"Well, technically, there's no record of anyone dying _in_ this house," Sam began, "but all of the previous owners _have_ died, and not exactly of natural causes." He quickly typed a few keystrokes and turned the screen to face you.

Multiple windows were pulled up, minimized enough for you to read the headlines for each. They were obituaries, articles. Your frantic eyes scanned line after line—"passed of undetermined causes", "an autopsy will be performed", "all who knew her said she was perfectly happy and healthy", "unexpected tragedy", "loss of a life so young", etc. But then something caught your eye.

" **The only markings found on the body were on the face. Scratch marks, deep and bruising, invaded the eyes. The eyeballs were almost completely removed. The scratches were determined to be self-inflicted."**

Your heart stopped.

"They all were found here, still alive but in a lot of pain," Sam explained softly. "Some had managed to call 911, others were found by friends or family. They all died in the hospital."

You simply couldn't believe what you were hearing. Your fingers gingerly touched your face, moving over the pink, tender skin. Your hands limply dropped to the table.

"If they all died in the same way, then how did it just go unnoticed?" you questioned, trying to keep your voice steady. "I mean, surely the police looked into it?"

"They did," Dean replied, his deep tone seeking to calm you. His green eyes searched your face. "There wasn't enough evidence. Skin was found under the vic's fingernails. They'd, uh... scratched their own eyes out."

" _All_ of them?"

"Most of them," Sam said, snapping his laptop closed to give you his full attention. "Get this; they weren't all the same. Gregory McPhearson, who lived in this house about 20 years ago, died of a heart attack. And Sarah Parker, who lived here before him, died from blood loss. She'd gotten a steak knife and, well, you can imagine."

"How many owners...?"

"Six," Dean said, "and that's all it's gonna be." He reached across the table and took your clammy hand in his, squeezing it tightly and rubbing soft circles with his rough thumb. His emerald eyes burned brightly and you did your best to hide the fact that your stomach was churning like a stormy sea. "Look, me and Sam, we're gonna protect you. Nothing's gonna happen to you. Not on our watch."

You stared into Dean's beautiful face, thankful beyond words. But doubt clouded your expression. "What are you guys gonna do? What kind of person could just... torture people like that?"

"Ferris Walden," Sam answered, disgust etching every syllable. "He built the house in 1880. He was never convicted, alive at least, but every missing person's body turned up within a mile of this street. At that point, he only had a few neighbors but he didn't have a good reputation."

"He was a loner—barely ever left the house," Dean continued, holding your hand tighter as if it would anchor down your fear. "But every time the police came sniffing around he was clean."

"Then how do you know it was him?" you questioned, looking for any silver lining. Maybe they were wrong, maybe this Ferris guy was just a little off so people pointed the finger at him. Maybe all of this wasn't real, a dream. That would certainly explain the handsome men sitting in front of you, especially the one holding your hand.

"In 1915 he was found dead in the woods half a mile away," Sam explained sullenly. He became very quiet. Silence ensued, then, "Walden's face had been scratched beyond recognition, his eyes were almost gone. And next to him was the body of a, um... missing eight year old boy. The boy's eyes... they'd been damaged for weeks. He was almost completely blind when he died."

"Oh my god," you gasped, covering your mouth with the hand Dean wasn't holding. He latched on tighter. Tears stung at your eyes, threatening to spill. A _kid_? This man had abducted and tortured a _kid_? "At least that monster died painfully!" you sniffed, glad that _some_ form of justice had been served.

"He never stopped, not really," Dean growled, voice raw with hatred. "But he will." His thumb slowed, moving to ghost across your knuckles. His eyes burned and his strong jaw clenched in anger. "He isn't gonna touch you."

Suddenly, it all became very overwhelming. You felt like you couldn't breathe, like the kitchen walls were closing in on you. You needed space, you needed air. You bolted up, your chair almost knocking over backward, shocking Sam and Dean and disconnecting your hands. You nervously wiped your sweaty palms on your jeans.

"I, uh, I n-need a second," you stuttered, almost tripping over your chair as you turned to leave the kitchen. Sam and Dean both stood, Dean making to follow you, but you halted him. Your words fell out in a quick, almost unintelligible jumble. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I just—just need to... take this all in. First you tell me that the things that haunt my nightmares are real, then I find out that a serial killer not only lived in my house, but tortured people in my basement, then you tell me that everyone who's owned this house since he died has been killed, and now he's after me?!"

Sam's face was beyond concerned. Dean was slowly rounding the table and approaching you, not blinking and not breaking eye contact, like you were a helpless ticking time bomb ready to explode.

"No, no, I'm fine!" you exclaimed a little more loudly than you'd meant to, stopping Dean in his tracks. You couldn't handle his touch right now, not on top of everything else. You were so overdone that you felt as if you were about to spontaneously combust. Before they could say anything else, you bolted from the kitchen, through your living room, and up your stairs. Once you'd reached your bedroom, you slammed the door and melted to the floor, shaking uncontrollably.

 _What_ the _fuck_ was going on?! Three days ago you'd been happily decorating your new home, the biggest care in your world being how you were going to hang your gargantuan clock on the wall. Now you were the target of a serial-killing dead guy that made his victims mutilate themselves until they were screaming in pain and on the brink of death.

This couldn't be real, it just couldn't be. This stuff happened in movies, in television shows, not in real life. You'd moved here to start anew, to capitalize on new beginnings... but it was like you couldn't get away. It was impossible to just be happy, to start a new life in a new place with a new job and new friends. You should've known better than to think you could start over that easily, to think that you could be fulfilled. For just once.

You don't know how long you laid there on the cold bedroom floor, the hardwood pushing against your already bruised face. But you didn't care. Why should you? If anything, it was going to get worse before it got better. Sam and Dean were here to do a job, just like before, but now it was out of moral obligation. They were stuck here with you until that _thing_ was gone. Then they'd leave, just like everyone else had, and you'd probably never see them again. You'd never see Dean again.

When you'd thought he was a simple contractor, there was hope. Something could potentially come from it. But Sam and Dean... what they did, it wasn't normal. You didn't even know that people like them existed until a few hours ago. They went wherever the wind took them, nothing tying them down, no baggage, unattached, hunting down the things that go bump in the night. Why pursue anything with Dean at all, why even entertain it? He wasn't coming back, he certainly wasn't going to stay for you, a girl he'd just met who was very much a textbook damsel in distress. There was no telling how many of those he'd come across, and how many were foaming at the mouth to show him how _thankful_ they were. You suddenly felt sick to your stomach.

You refused to be that, that girl that saw those green eyes and that flawless face and that muscular body and gave him everything for one night before he left town forever—that is, if you lived. You'd be a blurring face in a pool of overly grateful, horny women. You were never one to sleep around anyway. But the thought of never seeing Dean again, of never again having those emeralds surrounded by thick lashes stare through you and never again seeing that smirk that made your knees go weak... it hurt a lot more than it should.

You decided it. Right then and there, collapsed and shaking against the freezing floor of your bedroom, you decided that you wouldn't be the damsel in distress. You wouldn't stand in the background, shaking in fear, while Sam and Dean fought whatever the hell it was that wanted you dead. You wouldn't cry and shiver when the boys told you horrific details. You weren't going to take a knee when this fucked up monster tried to take your home and your life from you. No. If you were going to die, you were going to die fighting. You were going to die doing everything you could to defend yourself and your home. You would die doing your very best not to be another face in a crowd of helpless people. You were going to be a partner, an asset.

You were going to be a bad ass motherfucker that didn't give a damn.

Because if you weren't, you were dead.

Something wet and heavy dripped onto your face. You blinked. Another drop. You were very quickly brought out of your revere as a few drops fell into your hair. Confused and slightly dazed, you sat up, your eyes darting around and your hands searching your face for the warm water that had to be dripping from your ceiling. You brought down your hands to observe them.

It wasn't water.

You screamed, scrambling to your feet and hitting your head on the doorknob, hard. You stared in horror at the dark red blood beginning to ooze from your walls, from behind your picture frames, from the ceiling and through the floorboards, slowly creeping like a murderous insect, leaving bright red streaks that branded a pathway for heavier gushes.

You backed away from the closed door, your only escape, now blocked by a building waterfall of hot blood. You scurried to the center of the room, terrified, avoiding the spread of the red river, but in vain. It pooled around your ankles, boiling to the touch, stealing another shriek from you.

"Y/N! Y/N!" Dean yelled furiously through the door, followed by loud attempts at breaking it down. With every hard jump against the door, it shook, causing more blood to spew through.

"Hold on, we're gonna get you out!" Sam bellowed, immediately chased by double the body rams against the bedroom entryway.

Through the scalding blood slowly engulfing your legs and your torturous screams, you came to a painful realization. Not only were you about to die, but you were about to die helpless. Powerless. Alone. Just like the others. You took a deep breath and furiously blinked away the tears of pain spilling over you cheeks. You were going to die fighting.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT, YOU SON OF A BITCH?!" you screamed at the ceiling and walls, turning in circles. The hot blood sloshed around your steps. "You think you're just gonna take me, huh? That easily?" The reservoir of oozing blood continued to gush like a faucet from every orifice of your room. The eyes on all of your photographs and paintings were crying dark red. "You too much of a coward to actually face me?! What's with all the fancy parlor tricks, Steven King?!"

A furious hissing noise came from all around you, echoing through your head like a deadly viper. Despite the fear gripping your heart like a vice, you continued, egging it on in hopes of distracting it enough to allow Dean and Sam to burst through.

"You don't like people calling you out on your shit, do you?" you yelled furiously, the pain from the scalding blood around your legs almost too much to bear. "This blood crap? So unoriginal! I'm disappointed, I really thought I'd see something more _creative_! Oh, but how would you know, you can't see it, can you? That's right, your eyes were gouged out of your skull!"

A fierce roar came from the blood swallowing your waist, but it was receding. _It was receding_. The boys had finally busted through your door, furiously stomping through the red lake into the line of fire toward you. Sam was wielding a large shotgun, shooting at some thing unseen, while every fiber of Dean's attention was zoned in on you.

His eyes were ablaze as he wrapped you in his strong arms and lifted you out of the boiling plasma effortlessly, running toward the stairs.

"Sammy, hold him off! We've gotta get outta here!" Dean bellowed over his shoulder, bounding down the steps two, three at a time. Dean stampeded through the foyer and almost pulled the front door off of its hinges. Sam was a few bounds behind, still shooting rounds at something you couldn't quite see, and as fast as it had begun, it stopped.

All three of you collapsed into the grass of your front yard, coughing and groaning. Dean rolled off of you and onto his back, gasping for the air that had been knocked out of his lungs. You winced and moaned at the burning of your legs, your soaked jeans still hot to the touch and almost melted against your skin. Sam managed to hoist himself up on his hands and knees, gagging and gasping for fresh air.

It felt like ages before any of you spoke, Sam and Dean coughing up spatters of blood that your sure wasn't theirs.

"Oh, that's disgusting," Dean spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and turning up his lip. "Drowning in blood, that's a new one. Twisted bastard."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Sam groaned, holding out his arms to demonstrate how thoroughly soaked his red-stained clothes were.

You sat up and bit back a cry of pain as you attempted to peel back your jeans from your bleeding, blistering skin. Dean and Sam were beside you in a fraction of a second, commanding you not to touch it. Sam cautiously lifted the cuff of your right leg, but you were unable to hold back your tears as the searing pain impossibly worsened. Dean's hands were instantly on your back, your arms, your hands. It was a better distraction than you'd care to admit.

"Dude, we've gotta get her back to the motel," Sam insisted. "She's gotta be bandaged up, _now_."

"What? No hospital?" you managed to ask through the pain, wincing as Dean lifted you in his arms again.

"And what're you gonna tell them?" Dean lifted his eyebrows, shifting positions so that he was carrying you more gently. "That you almost got roasted alive by a dead homicidal maniac? Yeah, good luck with that one."

Fair enough.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to fight back the pain. Dean's fingers lightly squeezed your arm. You looked up at him.

"We're gonna take care of that, alright?" he told you, and you could feel the deep rumbling of his voice through his chest. To your amazement, through the nauseating smell of iron on his clothes, you could still detect a hint of that wonderful leather scent that could only be described as Dean.

"Thanks," you mumbled, finally meeting his eyes. For the first time since you'd met him and probably for the last, you let yourself fall into his eyes, his comforting smile. It was the only thing that could even temporarily numb the pain.


End file.
